by George Baxt
“Well, I told you he was terribly strange and withdrawn when I first saw him …”
“—and he underwent extensive plastic surgery.”
Tallulah banged her fist on the table. “So that damn scar’s probably gone!”
“Exactly, dear. Wherever Leo Walsh is today, there isn’t a blemish on him.”
“And here Jacob lets me go on thinking I have to find a man with an ugly scar, like that Mitchell Zang person.”
“Oh, I know Mitchell Zang. Wasn’t he Nance’s boyfriend?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“I’ve heard nothing but unpleasant things about him.”
“Such as?”
“He takes money from women.”
“So does Macy’s.”
“He has an ungovernable temper. I’d heard he’d beaten up on Nance a few times.”
“The brute! Probably got his scar in a knife fight.”
“After the plastic surgery.”
“For God’s sake, he isn’t Leo Walsh, is he?”
Mrs. Parker shrugged. “Why not keep him as a suspect? Leo Walsh’s surgery took place almost twenty years ago. A lot could have happened to him since then. After all, a lot happened to Abner and Martha. Abner met Nanette in New York while Martha was at the rehab center with the boy, and so goodbye Martha and Leo, hello Nanette.”
“I wonder what she knows.”
“Nanette? Why don’t you ask her?”
“You know where to reach her?”
“She’s probably at her studio in the Village. She lives and works in a converted carriage house on Duane Street. She’s in the phone book.”
“I suppose Jacob’s already been to see her.”
“Not that I know of. And besides, if he has, what difference does it make? You might get something out of her that he didn’t succeed in getting. Look how good you were with Oliver Sholom, if I can believe you.”
“Really, Dottie, when have you known me to lie? I mean I do exaggerate a bit and color my stories, but that’s for entertainment’s sake. I’m going to look up Nanette Walsh. She sculpts, doesn’t she?”
“I’ve heard she wields a mean chisel, and I’ve known some pretty mean chiselers in my day.”
“What about her politics?”
“The lady is tinted a rather light shade of parlor pink.”
Tallulah thought for a moment while Mrs. Parker stifled a yawn and entertained the possibility of another stinger. “Dottie, do things ever get lost in your mind?”
“Oh yes. People too. Mostly people, and with any luck, they stay lost.”
“That isn’t exactly what I mean, dahling. There’s something elusive hidden in my mind, something I either heard or saw the past couple of days that I think just might unlock the door to the solution of these crimes. How do I dig it out?”
“Tallulah, if it’s a good swimmer, it’s bound to surface sooner or later. Try talking it over with Jacob.”
“I did. I told him about Joe Savage’s strange remark, of course, but he didn’t react.”
“Tallulah, believe me, it’s filed away in his head. Jacob has a stone face Buster Keaton would appreciate.”
“For his own reasons, I suppose, he didn’t dwell much on either David Carney or Mitchell Zang. Or Gabriel Darnoff for that matter.”
“Well, for sure he’s not Leo Walsh. I wonder how his play went tonight. I hear it’s a dog.”
“Dottie, it doesn’t necessarily wash if we find Leo Walsh we’ve found the murderer of Miroff and Sholom. There must be dozens of people in the immediate vicinity with reasonable motives for murdering them.”
“And there’s always the possibility the murderer will never be apprehended. Let’s have another round of stingers and to hell with the rest.” Mrs. Parker signaled the waiter, who was wishing they’d go home. Tony’s was almost deserted There were a few diehards at the bar and only one other table was occupied by a young couple who sat holding hands and saying nothing, just staring into each other’s vacant eyes. Mrs. Parker noticed them and commented, “Those boys probably met a couple of hours ago and they’re still faithful to each other.”
“Dottie. about Nanette Walsh.”
“What about her?”
“She dumped Abner when he was blacklisted, didn’t she?”
“It wasn’t quite that way. They were washed up ages before he was fingered Actually, she stood by him through the entire mess and then she dumped him.”
“Leo Walsh, wherever he is, must hate her guts.”
“Wherever he is,” said Mrs. Parker as her eyes sparkled at the sight of the new stingers the waiter was delivering, “I wonder if he knows he’s being traced and if he does, how cleverly is he covering his tracks.”
“Frankly, dahling, I’m wondering why he hasn’t come forward. Why he didn’t appear after Abner and Martha died?” She sipped her drink “That sort of behavior makes it a strong case to suppose he’s the guilty party.”
“It could also mean that for reasons we don’t know about and may never learn about, he’d had a falling out with them and just didn’t give a damn. Or else he may be dead.”
“I somehow don’t believe he’s dead. And I think that is linked to that elusive piece of information I’ve got sequestered in my brain.” She raised her glass. “To Leo Walsh. I’m falling in love with him.”
TWELVE
Nanette Walsh was a woman of eloquent silences. More often brutally blunt and outspoken, she became awe-inspiring in her moments of quiet introspection when she was examining a person, an idea, a suspicion, an inspiration, or coming to a decision. Now at two in the morning, she was still at work on a bust of Abner Walsh, a work she had begun several years ago. She had abandoned it, then returned to it, then abandoned it again, her inspiration fluctuating with her emotional attitude toward her late husband. With his death, she was drawn back to it. Perhaps out of guilt, perhaps out of sorrow, no one would know. Nanette herself did not know. She had loved Abner in her fashion the way she had loved others, a devoted friend, an ardent and passionate partner in sex, but had never been able to give totally of herself. She admitted only to herself, and then reluctantly, that she had given up Abner because whatever he’d had to offer her in the past was spent. There was no chance of the reservoir refilling, and if it did, Nanette was disinterested in its contents. Nanette stood by him when he needed her, but she had long ceased feeling a part of him.
And she was no longer a part of the oaf who sat sprawled in an easy chair chugalugging from a bottle of beer. Mitchell Zang’s stream of consciousness defied damming. Months before Nance Listons suicide, Zang had taken to dropping in on Nanette’s carriage house for the occasional sexual nosh. Nanette had to admit he was a superior bedroom athlete, and so what if it cost her the occasional handout? She was not a person who picked up dates in singles bars. But like everything and everyone else in Nanette’s life, once it had served its purpose, she was anxious to be rid of Mitchell Zang.
“I tell you, Nannie, there ain’t no justice.” Her grip tightened on the mallet she was wielding, albeit gently. She was working on Abner’s nose and she had always treated his nose gently. “How the hell Arlen Stayne got to where he is today, I’ll never know.” She knew Arlen Stayne, a bad actor who had managed to wheedle his way into the positon of casting director, and had since unseated a well-known television producer and now reigned in his place. “I mean I knew him in the old days and today I can’t even get in to see him. How the hell does he do it?”
Nanette finally spoke. “He has never been terribly particular about where he places his lips.”
“Let’s go to bed.”
“Go home. It’s after two.”
“I want to stay here.”
“You’re not staying here.”
“Come on, stop being a cold bitch. I’ve had a rough night.”
She stopped working and turned to him. “Mitchell, to be perfectly frank, when you go home, I want you to stay there.”
He sat up. “And what
the hell does that mean?”
“That means that tonight finishes it. I’m not the future in your future and it’s time to call it quits.”
He leapt to his feet. The innocent beer bottle threatened to become a dangerous weapon. “Like hell it is.”
Her face turned ugly. “I make my own decisions, boy. Now go on home and tomorrow you can start prowling around for another meal ticket.”
“You ain’t dumping me like I’m a bag of garbage.” She tactfully refrained from seconding the analogy. “I’d like to punch you in the mouth.”
“Try it!” She raised the mallet, holding it with both her hands. “Just try it! You’ll have a dented skull to go with that scar!”
With a hideous cry, he leapt at her. She brought the mallet down, missing his skull and grazing his shoulder. His fist connected with her face and she fell back against a sideboard, She struggled to keep her balance as he circled to hit her again. She lifted the mallet again and this time was successful “Ha!” she yelled as she brought it down on his head with all her strength. He sank to his knees while she ran to the door, fled out of the carriage house into the street, and blessed God for sending a cruising patrol car in her direction.
Tallulah Bankhead and Dorothy Parker were feeling no pain. Not that any was being inflicted upon them, but a series of stingers had left them nearly immobilized. They were joined by the two young men from the nearby table, and found out they weren’t lovers at all. One of the young men, Mervyn, claimed to be psychic and had been ‘reading” his companion, whose name was Lorenzo.
“Lorenzo?” questioned Tallulah, as she examined the young man, who she thought was more a Ronald or a William, but never a Lorenzo. “How marvelously classical. Lorenzo!”
“I was named after a cat,” said Lorenzo. “He was my mother’s favorite pet when she was a child, if she was ever a child.”
“Don’t you like your mother, dahling?”
“I have to. She’s my role model.”
Mrs. Parker was trying to remember what country she was in and stayed silent. Tallulah turned to Mervyn. “So you’re psychic.”
“Yes. I can tell you a great deal about yourself, Miss Bankhead.”
“Don’t be presumptuous, young man, unless you prove to be amusing.”
“I see you in another life.”
“I’ve led many lives, dahling, not all of them mine.”
“Many centuries ago, you were a very powerful Egyptian monarch. You had vast estates and were incredibly rich.”
“Really? So where the hell’s all the money now?”
“Devalued”
“Dottie, you’re not paying attention.”
“Where are we, dear?” asked Mrs. Parker sweetly. “And who are these four young gentlemen?”
“There are only two, dahling, and one of them’s going to be an angel and get us a cab.” Lorenzo volunteered. “And, dahling, there should be a detective waiting outside. Tell him we can all share the cab!” She smiled at Mervyn. “I must have you at one of my parties … um … what was your name again, dear?”
“Mervyn.”
“Of course. Waiter! The bill.”
The waiter politely told her she’d already paid it
“Oh, have I, dahling? Mervyn, would you help me get Mrs. Parker out of here? Dottie, it’s time for beddy-bye.”
“Yes, dear, but where?”
While others were nursing hangovers the following morning, and still others were trying to solve murder cases, while Nanette Walsh pressed cold compresses against a bruise on her cheek and Mitchell Zang, lying in bed in Nance Liston’s apartment, cursed all women and casting directors, a formidable woman of two hundred and some-odd pounds was letting herself into Barry Wren’s town house. Annabel Forsythe, who had been given the option of living in or living out, had chosen out so as to spend some time with her common-law husband and four children, two of whom she was postive were his.
Annabel was in a particularly good mood this morning. Today was the last time her man Ike would have to report to his parole officer (assault, petty theft, and fraud) and then he’d be free to go back to his old bad habits, which sometimes turned a neat profit She was humming her favorite spiritual, “Ezekiel Saw the Wheel,” while she went to the kitchen to see if there was any tidying up necessary from the night before. Mr. Wren was an immaculate choreographer and performer and an absolute slob. Annabel was positive the exterminator was sending his son through college on his earnings from Barry Wren.
There was no dirty dishes, no pots with charred bottoms, no spillages on the floor. Annabel frowned when she realized the oven was still lit. She’d left a stew for Barry Wren. She looked in the oven. He hadn’t eaten any of it and the stew was just about burned out. Annabel thought of the starving children of India and then decided “Fuck ‘em,” it’s every kid for himself. She turned off the oven, used pot holders to transfer the stew to the sink, and then left it to soak in hot water and suds.
In the hallway, she could hear the television set blasting in Barry’s bedroom. So he’s up, good. Maybe he’s getting out early and I can give that room a really good going-over. Annabel adored housework. She was to broom and rag what Michelangelo had been to brush and paint. She cleaned and scrubbed exquisitely, a jewel among semiprecious stones. One would be hard put to recognize her as one of the long-limbed cocoa-skinned showgirls who had paraded around the old Cotton Club in Harlem.
She entered the bedroom, where there was no sign of Barry. Probably in the john. She crossed to the blaring television set and lowered the sound. If that annoyed Mr. Wren, who liked things noisy, she knew he’d yell, but there was no sound from the bathroom. She became absorbed in the old western on the screen. A weatherbeaten old fort was besieged by hordes of Indians. An army officer was frantically shouting, “There’s Sioux and Chippewa and Iowas, and my God, all the Indian nations have assembled to attack us!” It was a very early talkie and his voice squeaked “Look! There’s Arapahos and Dakotas and Saginaws …”
His subordinate said, “There must be a Pawnee.”
Annabel lost interest. She went to the bed to straighten it. It didn’t need straightening It hadn’t been slept in. All she saw was Wren’s knapsack. Funny, she thought, very funny. Maybe he’d slept in the guest room. The door to the bathroom was open and she now realized that Barry had positioned the television set so he would see the screen from the tub. Hands on hips, still humming, she entered the bathroom.
She didn’t scream She bent down and tried to lift Barry from the tub. She knew at once he was dead, she’d seen death often enough He was too heavy. The body slipped back into the tub. Annabel thought, as she hurried to the telephone, sheeee-it, now I’ve got to hunt me another position, and I might never find another one as cushy as this one. Sheeee-it, he never noticed how I screwed around the household accounts. The household money. It was kept in a jar in one of the kitchen closets. As soon as she dialed the police, she’d do the tidying up in the kitchen.
Now how the hell do you drown in a bathtub? she wondered. Oh well, let the fuzz figure that one out.
Detective Oscar Delaney, who had found Oliver Sholom’s body, accompanied Jacob Singer and the other officers to Barry Wren’s town house. He’d never been in a town house before. He’d heard about them and read about them and in the movies they were mostly occupied by Katharine Hepburn and Ronald Colman, but he never dreamt that he himself would set foot in one. Jacob Singer seemed very blasé about it, but then, Jacob Singer was a man of the world, or so Delaney was led to believe by some of the company he kept. Tallulah Bankhead. Dorothy Parker, whoever she was, Delaney being rather remiss where American literature was concerned. The mountain of a woman who opened the door guided them to the bathroom upstairs. Delaney marveled how someone her size could bound up the stairs like an ibex hopping from alp to alp. Jacob Singer had said, “Bingo,” when told Barry Wren’s body had been discovered. Tallulah had claimed they die in threes and by golly here was the third.
Jacob was
rather pleased with himself. He had figured the most likely candidate for third victim would be Barry Wren, though there’d always been the prospect of a dark-horse entrant. Delaney wondered why Singer was smiling. There was a dead body awaiting them, how could he be so cold-blooded? Singer was surprised to see the coronor had preceded them and was already busy with the body.
“How’d you get here so soon?” asked Jacob.
“Slow morning.”
“So what have we got?”
“One dead dancer. Drowned.”
“Accidental?” Singer was sure it was a foolish query, but he always had the same routine with coroners. It was like Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s on First?”—tired, familiar, but expected.
“He’s got bruises on his shoulders, and unless he’s been low man in a team of acrobats, he was held under water until he was dead.”
From the doorway, Annabel told them she’d found the latch on one of the kitchen windows broken while tidying up down there. “Looks like it was jimmied to me,” said Annabel knowledgeably. She was a jimmied window maven. Singer sent an officer to the kitchen to examine it.
Singer led Annabel back to the bedroom. “What’s your name?”
“Annabel Forsythe.” She smiled as she sat on the bed “We’re the North Carolina Forsythes.”
Singer liked her at once. “When’d you last see Mr. Wren alive?”
“Yesterday morning when he went off to class. He teaches ballet and—”
Singer told her he was well aware of Barry Wren’s celebrity.
Annabel told him, “He said he was going to be in last night and would I fix him some dinner and leave it in the oven, which I did. I fixed him my Stew Annabel, which is a recipe I got from an old admirer, my grandmother. I fixed enough for two in case he might invite someone to join him, he is … was … a very lonely person. I don’t think he had any friends at all no more, well, at least not since he grassed to the Feds. You know what I mean.”
“I know.”
“The food wasn’t touched. The oven was on when I got here, the stew and the pot a mess. I’ve got the pot soaking in the sink right now, except I suppose why bother?”
